Time to Murder and Create
by giraffeswearpantyhose
Summary: Bond didn't think he needed anyone, didn't think he had time. Until suddenly, he needed a Quartermaster.
1. Of Restless Nights

Let us go then, you and I,

When the evening is spread out against the sky

Like a patient etherized upon a table;

Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,

The muttering retreats

Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels

-The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock

* * *

Bond was not a patient man.

It had been weeks, months really, since he had bothered to break pick the lock on his Quartermaster's flat. It took too bloody long. He chose instead to use the key Q had left on his desk before one long forgotten mission that had been life-threatening at the time. 007 hadn't been able to decide if he was surprised or flattered or incredulous at the boy's insolence at assuming that the agent would continue to turn up bloody and bruised at the technician's doorstep.

It felt like all three.

Whatever his feelings – and he shuddered at the word, double-oh agents were meant to be cold, unfeeling, a blunt instrument of lethality, he wasn't meant to have _feelings_ – he kept the cold metal tucked deep in a pocket. The Quartermaster had stopped looking impressed when he got past the increasingly complex locks, so Bond used the speedier option. Besides, it was damn cold outside. A quick entrance into the warmth of central heating was worth the smug tilt of the younger man's lips when he saw the key in Bond's calloused palm.

* * *

Q was a very patient man.

He had to be. Kilometers worth of poetic lines of code did not come quickly. Cutting-edge espionage weapons meant to save the lives of agents and take those of the enemy were not speedily made. Developing the skills necessary to topple governments and raze cities from the comfort of one's own laptop took more than one afternoon.

In the months following the tragedy at Skyfall, he had become accustomed to applying his hard-earned patience to 007.

His top agent was _infuriating_. Bond showed a blatant disregard for the mission instructions Q lilted in his ear. The agency's best operative seemed incapable of returning equipment in the condition it was issued to him, if and when he returned it at all. The Quartermaster had still yet to forgive him for the time he fed such a beautiful, personalized gun to a komodo dragon. 007 also had a fondness for disappearing completely from Q's carefully constructed maps, destroying the trackers hidden in his clothes and weapons.

It never failed to scare Q halfway to his grave.

Despite these things, and for reasons unknown to him, the head of Q branch found himself sighing and giving the man another chance. Again.

And again.

And again…

Certainly the other double-ohs never received such leniency. On one memorable occasion, he had spent the better part of an afternoon berating 003 up one side and down the other for losing a phone that had consisted of over twenty hand-made-by-Q, one-of-a-kind parts and almost a quarter of the department's yearly budget. Q had intended to share it between all the agents, sending it where it was needed most. The staff of Q branch still refused to speak of the incident.

And yet, 007 received barely more than a long-suffering sigh and a hateful look when he returned from Bangkok with half of a radio and a request for yet another personalized gun.

Considering his easy treatment of the man, Q thought that he really ought not to have been surprised when a broken James Bond broke into his living room.

* * *

Bond never went home when M told him to.

This was partially because 007 hadn't felt at home in a very long time. A life earned with the death of others didn't lend itself easily to homecoming.

He had a sparkly new MI-6 commissioned flat, of course. Someone had even taken the thought to have it decorated in his preferred masculine, upper-class style. After spending one night in the king bed surrounded by neutral grays and blacks he had never gone back. Everything about it, the bare wood floor, the generic framed prints on the walls, and even the walls themselves, had felt cold.

It was partially because he dreaded sitting quietly, making coffee, and hearing men die in his hands as he replayed murders he made over and over. The first night after a mission, especially foreign missions, was the most difficult. Every ache was new all over again, since he never listened to medical and never took the pills and stitches they offered. Scenes were still fresh. The smell of blood and the taste of bile still clouded his senses. There wasn't enough alcohol in his system yet to dull thoughts of his mistakes, how he could have saved the faceless girl and retrieved the nameless data.

So he wandered.

In the morning, he would wonder why he knew where his Quartermaster lived, why he bothered to memorize the address tucked deep in a top secret file.

* * *

Q glanced up from the newest development taking shape on his laptop to see a very much worse for wear James Bond standing hunched in his entry way. He was impressed – not many could have found their way around a lock like his – if not surprised. He had received a warning on his screen and a visual on the intruder picking his front door long before he had heard the slide of tumblers in the lock.

Now he was merely curious. Why was MI-6's longest standing threat, the man with a government-issued license to kill, bleeding on his rug? As 007's handler for most foreign missions, he already knew the details. He could place a gunshot with the tear in the agent's gray tailored suit and he could picture in detail the knife that had caused the sluggishly leaking wound in Bond's thigh. Absently, he noted that Bond had refused medical's assistance.

Setting aside his laptop, he unfolded from his position in a corner of the couch. Q wasn't sure yet how to handle this version of Bond. Not many had experience with the man who was little more than just a man, getting old and wearing out. This person before him was not the barely contained power of the lion who paced through nations to deliver death when ordered. This was not the gruff old dog that showed up in his office at odd times to demand toys and bite at his leash. Nor was this the panther at rest in between missions, seemingly idle but still deadly.

The agent before him appeared human to Q in a way that none of the double-ohs had before. Bond's wide shoulders were hunched inward and his breathing was subtly hitched. Upon closer inspection, Q noticed a wide bandage peeking through the undone top of the agent's shirt. _Broken ribs then_, Q thought. He added the injury to the list quickly forming in his mind. Bond gazed blankly as his Quartermaster ran eyes up and down the older man, assessing.

He not only appeared human to Q; he looked damaged.


	2. Like a Patient Etherized Upon a Table

Bond stood quietly and allowed himself to be inspected in the drafty entryway of his Quartermaster's flat. This was note-worthy for the fact that he was allowing the all-over inspection. Bond was a man to be looked-at, for sure, but he was not a man to be scrutinized. 007 was trained to find the flaws in other. He was paid to manipulate the cracks he was so skilled at finding.

But he didn't want others to see the cracks that littered his armor.

He didn't yet know why, but Q's scrutiny didn't frighten him as others did. Q had seen him weeping on the floor of the old chapel by his home. Q had been the one to finally pry his stiff frozen fingers from M's lifeless form and the one that convinced him to allow the medical team to wrap him up burrito-fashion in heated blankets.

Bond guessed that since Q had seen him at one of his absolute worst moments, Q was the person he subconsciously turned to for care and comfort. _No_, he chastised himself. _No you don't need comfort. You don't _deserve _it after a mission like that._

He was here for stitches, for a hand that he trusted, for a bed he could sleep in without a gun under the pillow. Now, if only he could convince himself of that.

* * *

Q was mildly astonished when the deadly agent stayed stock still during his careful examination. Bond's eyes followed his movement as he turned to see a bloodstain on 007's back. "It's not mine," he offered softly. "The mission could have gone a little less sideways but that one's not mine." Q shouldn't have felt should a rush of relief at learning that the rusty stain on the agent's back hadn't come from his own veins.

(Bond meant nothing to him, or so he told himself. The man should have been nothing more than a blunt instrument to be wielded in the technician's capable hands. Concern for an instrument's capability is normal. Q needed Bond at his best. Concern for the man's emotional and physical well-being was not. Why did he care?)

Still in his place at the lion's back, the younger man placed a careful hand on the agent's shoulder. It was all wide, hard muscle. It felt like holding bare death in his long fingers, but Bond did not tense under his grip. Q tried not to take that as a good sign.

Slowly, always slowly as if with a feral dog, the Quartermaster led 007 through his flat to the master bathroom. Silently and still with the hand on the agent's shoulder, he positioned him on the edge of the bathtub and turned his back to rummage through his well-stocked medicine cabinet.

(Why did he feel safe, comfortable even, around the crouching panther? He knew first-hand the power contained within the form behind him. Q was the voice in 007's ear and Bond was the sound of destruction in his. It was ludicrous for him to trust the monster inside Bond with his turned back. Never had he carried a weapon on his person, and certainly never in his own home. All it took, he knew, was a few carefully placed fingers on the airway…but all his thoughts locked on the word broken. Broken like a man living on death.)

Turning back with the necessary supplies in his pale hands, he assessed the situation. None of the wounds on 007 were deep enough to warrant a visit to a hospital; they certainly weren't anything Q couldn't handle. Everyone at MI6 in regular contact with field agents was given in depth medical training, enough to save an agent's life if necessary. What worried Q was the way Bond leaned lifelessly against the wall, slightly hunched in on himself, his eyes half-shuttered in exhaustion. The regal grandeur that normally accompanied Bond wherever he went was gone. Q doubted that any more than a handful of people had earned the right to see the man behind the lion's mask.

Q wondered why he was one of them.

* * *

Bond realized in the back of his mind how he appeared to his Quartermaster. He knew for sure how he appeared to himself: pathetic, weak, like he had given up. Any other time, with any other person, he would have straightened up and put on a self-deprecating smirk to distract from the ache in his old bones. His old reliable charm and grace would adorn the mask of control, fitting together seamlessly to give an air of the unshakeable.

But for whatever reason, be it his absolute exhaustion or the trust he seemed to have placed in the almost-boy, Bond stayed bent and half asleep. Lazily he watched Q's steady movements and felt safer than he had in a long time.

Rousing a bit when a cold hand nudged his chin from where he was propped against the wall, he blinked up at Q. The sad smile he received in return did new and interesting things to his guts. Q's voice was little more than a murmur, "Come on. Shoes, trousers, and jacket off. That cut needs stitches, I can see that already, and you should let me look at your ribs and that arm."

Without waiting for Bond to move, the technician crouched and began to unlace the agent's stiff black shoes. 007 struggled slowly from his light gray suit jacket and did his best not to wrench the two ribs that lay broken in his chest. Q looked up with concern when Bond let out a pained breath but continued what he was doing.

When 007 was free of the loafers and jacket, Q helped him struggle to his feet so that he could remove his light trousers, leaving him in only his boxer shorts, a half-undone button-down, and his loosened black tie. Q knelt again and placed careful fingers near the cut that rent through Bond's upper thigh. It was an angry red line about 3 inches long and an inch deep, still sluggishly leaking blood.

The Quartermaster sucked in a steadying breath. This was not the worse Bond had ever seen and neither would it be the worst he would see. But it still hurt like a bitch and the agent rested a calloused palm on his Quartermaster's bicep to remind him.

* * *

Q sucked a breath through his teeth. The more logical side of his mind, the normally dominant part of his mind, knew that the gash was not serious. He knew it wasn't life-threatening and knew it was a clean slice that was easily repaired. He knew that in a few months it would be nothing more than a thin white line, one of many scars with forgotten sources. He knew, he knew. So why did he feel his stomach churn and his fingers clench.

Why did he want to feel the neck of man who did this in his grip? Why did he want to lock Bond, James, up and keep him from the life he had chosen?

Putting aside such thoughts for later contemplation, the smaller man set about with his busy hands.

Q had been grown up hearing that he had musician's hands, that he should take up guitar or piano. Personally, he always thought they served better on a keyboard, long pale nimble digits dancing over keys and codes. Now, he was happy that he had learned how best to put those fingers to use for others. It was nothing for him to slip surgical thread through the eye of his sterile needle and to clip it with his teeth.

Setting about his work with the ease of long experience (though this was only the second time he'd been forced to employ his medical skills), he asked Bond, "Would you like to talk about why you're here and not in the medical team's more capable hands?" Bond winced as the cold metal slid beneath his skin.

"Not particularly. Would you like to talk about why you know how to sew up a man's leg?"

"Not particularly," the Quartermaster mimicked with a small smile.

"Cheeky thing aren't you?" the agent asked tiredly.

The technician could only manage a barely-there grin as he finished up Bond's leg.


	3. For Decisions and Revisions

Bond did not talk about the day he broke down.

He tried to not think about holding the cooling body of M in his freezing fingers. It hurt, and this kind of hurt Bond was not used to. He wasn't used to waking up at midnight to hear the echoed choking gasps of Silva and to smell the water drying on his arms. He wasn't used to stepping carefully around his memories as he would a minefield. Never before had death left pits deep in his heart. Never before had he lost a lover that mattered…or a mother.

But sometimes he did think. Sometimes he had more than a day between missions. Other times medical left him alone to rest with his thoughts and bullet-free bullet holes, bottle-less. Some days London-gray skies and slim girls in backless dresses weren't enough to free him from the nightmares.

On one such day, a Thursday he remembers, he found Q.

* * *

Thursdays were difficult in the Quartermaster's opinion. To begin with, it looked nasty on the calendar, long and difficult to spell but without the friendlier sound of a Wednesday. Thursdays were close enough to the weekend for Q's underlings to be sluggish and heavy-handed in their work but not close enough to provide the finish line burst of morale that a Friday did. The technician sighed from behind his desk and stood to peer out his office and into the workshop.

To his surprise, not only were his interns and employees bent to their work, not a single one had taken an early lunch or even a whole afternoon as they were prone to when ideas weren't flowing smoothly. He glanced around to find the source of their sudden motivation when he saw 007 leaning carelessly against a far wall. The spy had one ankle crossed over the other and a lazy predator's scowl decorated his day-old stubble.

Q told himself that he was not at all interested in rubbing a hand against the grain of such stubble. What a ridiculous notion.

Heaving another sigh, Q pushed out of his office and did his best to look disapprovingly at Bond. He was most likely there to requisition yet another Walther or to start up the old fight about exploding pens. He did neither, only stared balefully at his Quartermaster's crossed arms.

The two men faced off for a few moments. Q was sure that it might have permanently frightened a few of the more submissive interns. Then, without any sort of warning, the subtle power play shifted and then snapped altogether as 007 hauled the hacker bodily out of the main office.

As he was pulled by a hand on his wrist and an arm around his skinny waist through the halls of MI6, Q glanced behind him to meet and reassure the alarmed gazes of his staff. He did his best to give them what he hoped was an encouraging smile as he was swept around a corner and out of their sight.

Bond finally halted in a deserted corridor under what felt like miles of crushing earth. The new (and improved) MI6 building had come with its own freshly unearthed bunkers, more of Churchill's left over from war days. They were kept stocked with everything needed to run the entire British Secret Service from beneath the ground, including supplies to house and feed most of the employees if absolutely necessary. It was hoped that the reinforcements would come to nothing, but after Silva's devastating attack, the Prime Minister hadn't spared a thing.

The Quartermaster turned to the larger man hulking in front of him. The technician was so close to the agent that he could feel each puff of breath on his cheeks but the cool stone wall against his back kept him where he was. Q had never seen Bond the way he looked in that moment. The aging spy was missing the flirtatious charm that seemed to follow at his heels like a small animal, entrancing those he came in contact with. Nothing in his physical appearance hinted at dishevelment; Bond even found a way to make his prickling stubble appear polished and clean-cut. But something in his ice eyes was cracking.

_Like cracks in the statue of an old war hero_, Q thought out of the blue.

Q had learned over time and through necessity when it was best to speak, and when it was best to hold words. He silently flicked his brown eyes between the painfully blue ones that captured him like a silent snake with a songbird.

Bond, no this man could be called James, the man behind the mask. James must have found what he was looking for in his Quartermaster because he quickly bent and gathered Q's long limbs into his chest before crushing the smaller torso to his. It was as if he wanted to consume the smaller man, absorb him and keep him, the way he wrapped his arms so far around Q that his elbows overlapped.

* * *

007 didn't know what had possessed him. One minute he was sitting quietly at his assigned desk, staring at a blinking cursor on his mission report. _Like a chained hound_, his thoughts growled at him. The next, he was shoving away and out of his chair, nearly taking the desk over with him. It had just appeared so pointless to him, the paperwork, the bloody desk, the way his back ached in all the most difficult places, his life.

(Really? What good did it do for him to put holes in the heads of one terrorist group just to take out the next in a week's time? Did it make any difference if it was him or the next agent that lost their mind? Would he be anything more than an inaccurate obituary and a single stone with a name when the demons at his heels caught up to him? Would they even find him to bury him?)

It took all of his careful discipline not to sprint like a man mad down the endless corridors. He didn't even have a destination until he found his feet in Q branch.

The interns that crowded the desks had seen the haunted look in his eyes more than once and knew better than to speak. They all mutely went about their various tasks as the cat amongst the mice leaned against a wall.

Not that he could have told you why, but the restless clawed thing in him settled at the sight of the agent's Quartermaster tinkering on a laptop. He was prim, if a bit rumpled, in navy cardigan and slacks reminiscent of an older era. And he set Bond at ease. Whether it was the practiced way he moved, careful and comfortable with his technology as a mother would be with a child or the way that James could here echoes of clipped commands in his ear that never failed him, James felt safe and comforted and the technician hadn't even seen the agent yet.

Really, he could not be held for his decisions after a revelation like that.


	4. And I Have Known the Arms Already

**Sorry it's been so awfully long! Holidays have been crazy at my house but here's a short chapter for you lovely people. Happy late Christmas!**

* * *

James would have been lying to say that he regretted his actions later.

He never did where Q was concerned.

James came to himself in a deserted corridor deep in the belly of MI6 with his arms tightly around the whippet of a man and the echo of the technician's tiny gasp in his ear. He wasn't horrified exactly, to find himself in such a position. He knew that the pose spoke deeply of need, weakness even, and there was nothing he hated more than appearing weak. But he couldn't quite work up to the freak out this would normally warrant.

It felt nice to have a warm body against his again. It felt even nicer to have one that he wasn't required to sleep with for information, one that wouldn't die soon, sometimes by his own hand.

He sighed but he didn't make a move to let Q go. Instead, he sank slowly to his knees and took his captive with him. Once there, he pulled the Quartermaster into his lap until the smaller man had his skinny arse on the floor between James' crossed legs and his own long legs resting at the small of the agent's back. James didn't loosen his hold on Q. If anything, he gripped him tighter, burying his face where his neck met his shoulder.

For an endless moment the men stayed curled around each other. Somewhere in that moment Q reached one of his trapped hands up and curled it into the small hairs at the back of James' neck.

James didn't pull away.

He reflected on that. Normally, and hand on his neck that wasn't his own set the beast inside him snarling. His instincts were the product of too much training. He, like all the double-ohs, had an acute paranoia so ingrained into them that it became an art. But for whatever reason he trusted the man that the lightly-muscled torso in his arms belonged to.

* * *

The Quartermaster exhaled lightly from where his chin was pressed into the top of the agent's head. He would never begrudge James a moment like this. Since the night James had crawled silently in between Q's sheets and let tears soak into the pale flesh of his side, Q had started to care for the older man in his own quiet way.

After a mission, one of many since the technician had sewn up a leg and muffled sobs, he left a key to his apartment on James' desk. Neither spoke when James inevitably appeared in the doorway.

Some mornings, most often when he was recovering from a rough outing and it was difficult to make the walk to the break room, the spy would find a tall thermos of coffee just the way he liked it steaming on his desk. Once, there had been a box of quaint tiny pastries, as if his Quartermaster somehow knew that James had skipped several meals in favor of a bottle.

And many, many times the technician had simply allowed James to crawl into his bed in the early hours of the morning without judgment. He had allowed himself to be wrapped in tight embraces and even more often had been the one giving the embrace.

So Q sat silently while James worked through whatever he needed to in the dark corridor of MI6. Q made it a point never to ask what had the lion of a man nuzzling into his shoulder and James very seldom offered. They remained until the automatic lights had clicked out and then longer still. When the spy finally pulled away with a sigh Q held his gaze.

Slowly, for one had to do just about everything in a cautious manner around James, Q took the agent's head between his palms. He pressed their foreheads together and murmured quite nothings into the space between breaths.

When James pressed up and their lips met the Quartermaster didn't move.

* * *

James couldn't have told you why he wanted to kiss the man in his arms.

He could tell you exactly why he wanted to hold and to be held by him, in many different languages. He could wax rhapsodic about the reasons he had first pressed his nose into Q's bare ribs only hours after allowing Q to sew up his leg and tuck him into a different bed. He could even explain, if a bit shakily, why he had found Q's door instead of the many other available. He had spent a lot of nights awake and thinking about it.

But he didn't know why he wanted Q's lips on his own.

Sure, he had spent a lot of time thinking about those lips: the way they became more chapped the longer he was away from London, the way he had found the spot where the Quartermaster had chewed through the skin of his bottom lip after Bond had fallen off his digital maps, the way they would surely taste of the Earl Grey the technician consumed like water, and the way they whitened when Q pressed them together in irritation. James had made a study of Q's lips the way a detective might make a study of cigarette ash.

Never had he imagined them against his own, but now that they were there, he didn't plan to let them go again.


	5. Smoothed by Long Fingers

**Really sorry that this has taken so long to update! I've had massive writer's block. It was like trying to climb over a 20 foot wall to get at my creativity again. I'm not completely happy with this chapter but you all deserve an update. I promise the next will be better.**

* * *

Q, head technician of Q branch of MI6 and Quartermaster to James Bond, was used to a Bond that took. It didn't surprise him when James appeared in his bed uninvited and seeking protection from the demons in his mind. It was even less surprising when he woke in the morning to find that Bond had slipped away without a word. He was used to Bond barreling through his quiet life and taking what he needed from the young Q. Then, when his needs were satisfied for at least one evening, the Bond that was no longer James would march boldly back into his own life.

Q wasn't bothered. Many had warned him not to expect much from a man that was so arrogant and crass as James Bond. Any relationship with him was bound to fail, they said. Bond was of a species that only knew how to take, to take and take and never give, until the giver was worn out and empty or dead. Stay far away from that one, everyone cautioned. He only likes a pretty thing in his bed. He's a blunt instrument, that one, not worth your time or the pain he'll cause you.

Yes, Q had heard the advisements that preceded the man, most of them many times over from a variety of mouths. He had taken most with a grain of salt, for tongues in MI6 were not as tight as one might expect from an agency of national security.

Q had instead made his one study of the man known as 007. Over days and weeks and months he had watched Bond both in the field and as the agent stalked through London as a large cat would his cage. The Bond he had come to know was a gift of mixed blessings. On the one hand, he was M's best field agent, even though he was far from the most reliable (to date, he had "died" three times). Some missions had been known to turn a bit sideways but they always ended in England's favor. On the other, he was a pompous, rude, sometimes ridiculous pain in the arse of everyone forced to deal with him. No one in Q branch had the courage to bring up the many things broken during Bond's second "death". The interns had simply left a new Q10 mug on their leader's desk the next morning.

And as he watched, he learned. He learned that the fearless James Bond wasn't quite as put together as he seemed. When no one bothered to check, the cracks showed through as they would on an overworked teapot used by hands to careless to care for damages. Yes, Agent 007 wasn't quite as well held-together as he would have had everyone believe.

* * *

So when Q found himself with his lips on Bond's he knew better than to move.

He locked up and pulled away, still quiet, still calm. Situations such as there were meant to be handled delicately. There was no reason to add to the already spiderwebbed cracks.

He waited until Bond's blue eyes flickered open and then waited still more until Bond had worked through the initial frustration at being denied something that was usually so carelessly given to him from others. It was when the spy's mouth moved to open that the Quartermaster chose to make his argument.

"You don't want this from me," he stated calmly and with all the authority of his position.

"No?" he questioned. His usual smirk was now back in place as he wandered fingers between Q's shoulder blades but Q could see through the act.

"No," he affirmed. "You want an escape. I can't be that for you when you're like this. You're impulsive right now and you would only regret it later. Now, before you argue, I'm not saying no. I seem to have lost the ability to say no to you. I'm saying not right now. You're hurting and it won't do for you to go and mess up something that will only hurt you more. We're going to sit here in the dark just like this until I decide you're in the right headspace to actually be useful for the rest of the day. Alright?"

"And if I decide that I do want you-that-when we leave?"

"Then you can come to my apartment this evening and we'll discuss. You have a key though heaven only knows why I ever thought it a good idea to give you one," Q allowed.

Bond searched his face and seemed to find something like acceptance there; he didn't argue when Q tucked his head into his slender chest and petted through his short blonde crop.

Q sighed to himself as he settled more comfortably. It was going to be difficult, whatever happened that night. Looking at his own emotions rather than James' for once, he found what was holding him back. It wasn't that he didn't want something more. He did. He had for a long while. It was that he couldn't bear to answer the question that had been on those lips only to find later that James regretted even asking. Whatever they had now was working even if it rent a little bit of Q's heart each time he heard the familiar click of a door closing. Best to wait until Bond could think.

It might have been days that the two men sat in the pitch black. Q held James close and pretended not to notice the tears that salted his cardigan and the way James pushed his nose firmly into his skin and whimpered softly as Q smoothed his hair. Time stopped having meaning up until Bond finally pushed away and stood up, tightening his cuffs and dusting off his trousers.

They took different routes back to their respective offices and went about the tasks given to them. The technician found the workers in his department all aflutter from his rapid and unconventional exit. He expertly settled problems that had arisen in his absence and neatly dodged questions flung in his direction. At the end of the day he locked up his office and gathered his things to go. There was still an endless amount of work to be done and projects to be looked over but there wasn't any reason he couldn't do that from the comfort of his own bed.

He firmly told himself that he was not leaving early just to go back to his flat and wait for Bond.


	6. Of Lonely Men

The Quartermaster glanced around him as he went through the motions of opening his flat. The lock was coded to his fingerprint and DNA signature of course, but it wouldn't do for his perfectly normal neighbors to think he was anything more clever than the nurse he pretended to be. Whenever Bond was in London, Q half expected him to materialize out of the shadows around every corner, but however much he strained his eyes in the dim hallway he couldn't discern the broad lines of his most deadly responsibility.

Letting himself into the dark flat he quietly toed off his shoes and slid his cardigan onto a chair by the door. He rolled up his sleeves and left his automatic brewer making growls that sounded like preparing tea. Light-footed in his socks, he whisked through the modest rooms turning on soft yellow lamps and setting the evening news to occupy itself. In his nest of wires and couch cushions he finally settled down with his favorite Q mug, his laptop, and a folder of work to be done. Dinner would just have to wait.

For a few hours he lost himself in code and the beauty of brand new, highly-destructive weapons. When he finally glanced up to see that the sun had long ago given his place to the moon he was surprised to see he had lost so much time.

(Well into the night and no knocks on his door or keys in the lock. Did that mean…? For the best really. What would he have gotten out of such a thing anyway? Nothing but a sorely beaten heart and all the more blood in his foyer. He had been right. He was always right. Men like Bond didn't want skinny young men – boy really – like him, not even as distractions. Better to have not started it at all.)

He dumped his long cold tea in the sink as he passed and went through the motions of settling in for the night. Back off went all the softly burning lamps and back locked went the tiny window pane he had opened to let in the crisp night air. Into its safe went his laptop, along with the plans from MI6 and his work mobile. Off came his rumpled button-down and the damned tie he so despised.

That was probably the only thing he hated about his job, he mused to himself. It wasn't that he didn't appreciate the enforced formality of dress at such a serious job, but would it really make a difference to England if he conducted his business in a cozily oversized jumper rather than a starched shirt and tie? At least they allowed his slightly off-beat cardigans. Despite Bond's very rude comments they were quite warm and not at all "frumpy".

Sighing quietly at the state of disrepair he had let his room get to, he perched on the end of his unmade bed to yank off his socks. That bed had been the backdrop of many a insomniac night filled with only twisted sheets and the blue hazy glow of a screen. Actually, he worked more than he ever slept there. If he was lucky he came down long enough to crash for an hour or two before he was back, exhausted but wide awake.

Flinching from the chilly bare wood he did a sort of hopping dance around the room as he gathered his clothes and the many piles on the floor and deposited them in a hamper to be washed later. It was a relief when he finally made it to the plush bath mat and started the water in the shower. Absently, he wondered if he had ever gotten around to putting some food in his stomach. He could never remember when he was working.

Giving another long sigh at his own carelessness he stepped into the frosted glass stall.

* * *

Warm water was a balm that Q doubted he would ever take for granted. It took the grime off his pale skin and blessedly unknotted the tight muscles in shoulders and lower back. All of his joints loosened and he moved about a bit boneless, humming tunelessly. He had almost started to slip into sleep standing up when he felt fingers that were not his own working into his scalp.

His first reaction was out and out panic. All his previously relaxed muscles tensed and he whipped around to face the intruder. He would deny until his dying day the high-pitched scream that was abruptly cut off by Bond's hand over his mouth. Q struggled to get free; Bond should not be here, he hadn't meant it, and Bond should _definitely not_ be naked in his shower! But this was a double-oh he was fighting against and so Q would be silent until the agent decided to give him the power of speech again. In the meantime he did his best to kill Bond with the pure hatred in his glare.

It was to no avail and Bond's heart stubbornly continued beating. "Are you finished?" he asked the man in his grip, far too casually for the situation.

Still glaring, Q nodded slowly. The larger man released him and he immediately launched into speech and tried to physically force the spy back out of the stall. "This is not acceptable at all! I invited you to talk, not to intrude on me in my own home. How did you even get past the second lock? This is beyond inappropriate. We are coworkers and you have to-" Bond's hand came back to cover his mouth.

Q had had quite enough of his game. Violence seemed to be the only answer. So Q bit into the flesh of Bond's palm, hard…and nothing happened. Bond continued to stare down at his slim captive and seemed willing to wait as long as it took. Giving up, the Quartermaster released his hold on the agent's skin and rested back against the hand on his shoulder.

"Now are you finished?" Bond inquired again. Q again nodded his answer, but resignedly this time. He only stared up at Bond, waiting for an explanation for what they were doing naked together in a stream of scalding water.

He was happy to oblige. "This is me, telling you that I want whatever 'escape' you were offering. Never was one for much discussion though. I prefer the grand gesture. And before you argue, I'm not sure what I'm looking for and I know that you're not sure what you're offering. But I want to try it. I want to try you."

Q didn't have anything to say to that. He felt very small from where he stood under the other man's piercing blue gaze. It was all he could do not to run away from the situation right then and there. And God, what if it hurt? What if he couldn't keep his heart tucked deep enough out of sight and this man, James, somehow got it away from him? What then?

All he could do was nod another very quiet nod and turn away from those eyes to turn the stream as hot as it would go.

* * *

And that was the end of whatever discussion Q had planned on having. James stayed in the tiled bath with him and it was surprisingly nice to have another warm body. Suddenly there were longer arms than his available to wash the place just south of his shoulder blades and hands warmer than his to massage shampoo deep into his scalp. Neither got any further than platonic, caring touches; they didn't even kiss again. No one got rock hard and fiery passion didn't sweep them off their feet. It was all very relaxed and companionable.

_Nice_, Q thought. _This is nice._

* * *

**Yay, an update! I've been more feeling Q's perspective than Bond's lately so that's why we don't see his in this chapter. I freely admit that I wrote this entire chapter in about half an hour in a Twizzler and coffee-induced haze, so any mistakes are most definitely my fault. And this is the part where I ask you all, my lovely wonderful readers, to give feedback. Are you liking the angst? More angst, less angst? Would you like smut in the next chapter? Would you like a next chapter? I feel like this could end here if you wanted so please tell me what you'd like! Thanks!  
**


	7. Here Beside You

**To begin with, a million thousand apologies to my lovely readers. I am so so so very sorry for the unforgivably long amount of time that this chapter has taken. I grovel at your knees. My excuses are few. School of course takes precedence, as does my activities in theatre, but mostly it was the laziness monster and pretty terrible writer's block. Again, I apologize many times.**

**Next on the agenda, a million thousand thank yous to my lovely comment-writers and feedback-givers. You all are the reason I ever actually write anything. The best and most inspiring go up on my white-board to give me confidence on bad days. So thank you so much!**

**Thanks to my dearest Ryenan for her support and butt-kicking. Love you darling.**

**Finally I hope you all enjoy this chapter. It's the longest at around 2,000 words. Still a baby I know but quite a lot for me. As always, feedback is very much appreciated!**

* * *

After a while, much longer than Q ever took when he was alone, they climbed out and stood dripping on the tile. Q retrieved a second towel and when he returned James took it from him. But he didn't apply it to his own soaked skin, instead he took the Quartermaster's head in his hands and toweled off the mop of black hair before he moved on to his own shorter blonde. Soon they were both dry, though Q's hair still stuck to his brow.

Silently they moved back into the master bedroom and the technician glanced around him in unease, suddenly feeling the awkwardness of the situation. When he had gone through before, he had only noted the mess in an absent, back of his mind sort of way. But now he saw in vivid detail the colony of mugs half-full of Earl Grey that were rapidly multiplying and forming a civilization on his bedside table. He took in the piles of spy novels and theoretical weapon concepts covering the floor and the pure clutter that covered every surface in a film of orphan socks and bullet casings lying among pen caps and flash drives.

Flushing red in acute embarrassment, he set about scooping mounds of clothing up and dumping them in the hamper before scrambling to clean the deconstructed laptop pieces from his unmade bed. James didn't allow him to get very far.

James was observant. His job forced him to be. So, it wasn't difficult to notice Q's sudden discomfort, even before the cleaning spree began. During their time together, the agent had had ample time to study the Quartermaster's various emotions and reactions. Therefore, it wasn't a surprise that he took note when all of the muscles in Q's back tensed the second he laid eyes on the room as he walked in ahead of James. He saw as well the hurried almost reckless movement in Q's arms that lacked the clam precise energy he usually carried. Of course this sort of unrest could not be allowed. The agent couldn't stand to see the man that had become his rock looking so worried, so…awkward in his presence. Hadn't they moved past all this somewhere in the dark hours of many long nights?

In his usual unapologetic manner, James simply grabbed Q about the waist and held him firmly in one arm as he cleared a space for them on the bed with the other. Sitting down, he pulled Q with him and onto his lap till he could get at the smaller man's white slender neck. For whatever reason, he held back from a proper kiss. The agent just breathed. He watched as goose bumps rose along his Quartermaster's collarbone and up towards his protruding Adam's apple. When he pressed his ear to the pulse point he could see beating he felt the smaller man finally relax into his chest, resting a pointed chin in the curve of Bond's shoulder. For a small eternity that was reminiscent of the morning's escapade they sat. It was a pause that allowed both men to gather themselves for whatever change was coming between them.

Q was first to disengage. Pulling away he sat across James's long legs. With a sigh he started the speech he had been dreading all evening, "James, I told you this morning that you wanted an escape, and that I could be that escape if you still wanted it. And I will. But first you have to talk to me, James. We both need to know what we're getting into. So I suppose I'm asking what you want from me."

Now it was James's turn to search the eyes that met his. The color of beach rocks in the morning, he noted absently. What did he want? To begin with he wanted to kiss the man in his lap. And he wanted him the way he wanted all the beautiful women that ended up his bed. But he was surprised to find that it didn't end with a single night. He wanted to wake up with Q in his bed and have no worries about how to sneak away without rousing him. He wanted to spend evenings in this tiny flat with no thoughts of how drunk he would have to be to forget. Mostly he plain wanted.

These revelations were lovely, but never let it be said that Bond could not learn from his mistakes. Love had broken him before and he was not overeager jump back onto that particular grenade. Better to wait and see if the pin had been pulled.

He started slowly, not really his style but the boffin really had changed him. His voice was low and gruff but James didn't break eye contact as he spoke. "Tonight I want to sleep next to you in this bed, for as long as I like. In the morning I want to get up at noon and cook you breakfast and fuck MI6 for once. After that I don't know. But I want you."

Q let out a barely audible gasp of shock at the words but he was careful to keep his expression unchanged. Mentally he had prepared himself for a one-night stand or even a short spell in which he was the pretty thing in Bond's bed. Despite himself he had started to believe the rumors that filled the mouths of the British secret service. He hadn't in his wildest fantasies expected such an innocent and heart-felt request from the most dangerous man known to Europe. He was quiet for only a moment because he could see the hesitation gleaming deep in the ice chips that were James's eyes.

"Yes. Yes, of course. Of course I can do that, James." The spy's dry, cracked lips pressed against his forehead in gratitude and fondness.

Things became quite easy between them after that. Q climbed down to pull on the softest t-shirt he had stolen from James. The spy's joints popped as he put on the old sweats he kept in a drawer. The silence was companionable as they slipped between the sheets and Q took hold of James's arm till they were pressed chest to chest. The technician had chuckled to himself when he had first noticed that they preferred opposite sides of the bed. What an odd couple, indeed.

* * *

Q woke with the sun full on his face and rough fingertips on his arm. Blinking he watched as James's hand danced from the flat of his palm to the milky delicate skin that covered the inside of his wrist and back. He let out a little puff of breath. For once here was Bond. It was daylight and the ring of a latch clicking didn't assault his ears. He wasn't rolling over into already-cool sheets and dreading the day ahead. Instead, to his right he found an almost painfully warm agent and the promise of a slow morning that would leak into a lazy afternoon. It was almost enough to convince him Bond cared.

It was with reluctance that he met the yes he could feel on him. Would the damning daylight prove too much for whatever had gentled the double-oh the evening before? But no, the blue he saw was gentle. A pond rather than a glacier. He allowed a sliver of hope to crack his resolve.

* * *

True to his word, James made breakfast. It was quite possibly the strangest thing the apartment had ever seen, and Q had once set out to build the ultimate gaming system from the electronic guts of several models. The boffin sat sipping tea at the breakfast bar, which in the cramped quarters was more of a breakfast side table. He made a valiant effort, truly he did, not to admire the agent's sculpted back as he flipped French toast and sausage with the air of long practice. Low-slung sweat pants and a tee that was forever riding up weren't much helping his struggle.

The scent alone had the younger man practically drooling. It was unfortunate that in this area Bond was strict. There was to be no tasting until everything was finished. Q had made to his perch with his Earl Grey. He let out a little sigh; his hard-won patience did not extend to food. Since he so rarely had a proper meal it was a bit of an occasion. Usually it was snacks picked at with one hand as the other manned a mouse or dinners half-noticed during department meetings.

The wait was almost worthwhile for the show that had come before. The overworked men really handed left the bed before noon for anything other than glasses and coffee. When Q had eventually stretched and rolled cat-like onto the floor James had followed. It took him one moment to notice the double-oh shrugging on his day old button down and trousers, and another to feel his heart almost break. This time though his fears were unfounded. Bond had simply marched down to the corner store with his usual swagger to gather supplies, gamely ignoring the sniggers and whispers directed his way.

James's dramatic flourish snapped him from his thoughts. He stared in amazement at the plate thunked down in front of him. Piled high were two stacks of French toast slathered and dripping in warm strawberries and jam, dusted over with sugar. The amount of sausage that accompanied it was almost obscene, as was the involuntary whine of pleasure Q let out at the sight. Yes, he reflected with his mouth full as he met laughing blue eyed, good things were worth waiting for. This might turn out alright after all.

* * *

And it was all right for a while. Weeks were fast on the heels of days that clung tight to hours. Time moved faster than ever and Q was surprised most nights to come back his flat no more morose or tired than he left it. Of course there were always the harrowing days, and sometimes months, when Bond or another trained killer got himself into a bit more trouble than the British had planned for. But thus far 007 had always returned to Q's bed, dropping the demeanor and just…being.

Their relationship progressed slowly. Almost immediately James moved in. it wasn't something they talked over since he had basically lived with the young Quartermaster when he was in London after the episodes at Skyfall. It was both a new and somewhat unsurprising venture for Q. His secure little MI6-issused flat became a little strange and a little not his own and a little more homey all at once.

The neatness was the first development, but he had expected that. Anyone seeing Bond on one of his better days could instantly guess that he was a put-together sort of man. Anyone who knew him was sure of it. So the shared rooms got cleaner and more polished.

Then it wasn't long till Q started to notice James's touches. There in a previously blank corner was a tastefully black and white print of the anatomy of an automatic gun, taken apart and laid bare to the observer. In the shower and on the dresser stood undoubtedly expensive products with brand names that Q had never heard of. A formerly untouched leather chair developed a dent the exact shape and size of James's reclining back. Novels with broken spines took up residence on the table next to it.

And it wasn't only at home that quirks manifested. Just as the technician had been doing-rather sneakily he had thought-things appeared on his desk throughout the day. His favorite mug refilled itself with perfectly sweetened tea as he became too engrossed to notice. Food collected at mealtimes; the young genius quite often forgot to eat on a normal schedule. Once it had been the most beautiful bowl of raspberries he had ever seen, in the middle of January no less. Often it was fish and chips from his favorite out-of-the-way vendor. The grease helped him think and gave him much-needed calories.

The most perplexing part of the gifts was not how they appeared without notice, Bond was a spy after all, but the manner in which they got there. It began with a bottle of Q's favorite cologne that found its way into his bag one afternoon. A shiny black ribbon held on a card that simply read 'You were almost out.' The Quartermaster had looked about in amazement. He was quite sure that 007 was occupied with a terrorist cell deep in Madrid; he had just handed the headset to one of his more competent underlings. Chuckling under his breath he had simply accepted the strange parameters of whatever relationship they now had and continued to pack for home.

But not before making a mental note to find out who James had bribed, and with how much.


	8. Life with Coffee Spoons

**Just a baby update because you guys deserve it. The next chapter will be much longer and have actual plot, I promise! It just didn't seem to fit with the little bit I've got here, so I went ahead and gave this part it's own chapter. Enjoy the fluff!**

* * *

Almost three full months went by in this fashion. In that time, James was gone eight weeks for three different missions. He killed eleven men in hand to hand combat and forty-three more with guns or explosives. He returned drunk twice. Q developed one and a half new automatic weapons and updated software for two major corporations. He hacked fourteen computer systems and took down three minor criminal organizations remotely. He made one list.

On that list was a running tally. To date it had a neat count of the number of times James had kissed his forehead (nineteen), the days tea had appeared in his cup (thirty-seven), the moments he caught James watching him (fifteen), and the number of shirts ripped when a drunk Bond grabbed him for balance coming up the stairs(one).

* * *

Life had taken on a neat and comforting pattern for the two men.

Bond was sometimes in London and most times not. The change was in the fact that he slept in the same bed with the same body on the same side when he was. There was always good scotch in the cupboard next to a package of tea and his suits were always hung neatly next to ironed cardigans. He didn't have to think about where he had left his shoes the night before. A chair he had come to think of as his stood undisturbed until he returned and his half-read books stayed on the table next to it. No longer did he have to hunt through someone else's shower for shampoo that didn't smell like fruit.

When he was home days were a smooth cocktail of skinny hands holding his coffee and a slender mouth he had to tell himself not to kiss.

When he was away his atmosphere had that consistent wrongness of hotel room beds and baths that smelled of other people's shaving cream. The difference was in the fact that little notes always ended up tucked among his ties in his suitcase. Bond would smirk at the admonishments to return with all of his equipment and think of the spectacled boffin he had left at home.

Home was a very comforting word to a man that could have been called homeless three months prior.

Q was pleased by the way life now went along with mathematical consistency. Like a well-worn keyboard it had familiar patterns. When his adopted killer was in London, they flowed around each other with ease of long use. Q brewed coffee and tea in the mornings while James had the shower and the spy cooked dinner in the evenings. If Q had to stay into the night for a project or another double-oh, James never failed to appear with take-away Chinese and a novel to settle in a corner with. Both took two cabs and a meandering subway route to work, arriving twenty minutes apart. At night they slept side by side in the master bedroom, sometimes with Bond's chest flush to Q's back and sometimes with the technician's errant curls pressed into James's shoulder blades.

When the spy was home days were a neat mix of chaste kisses and a hand resting on his back on the way out the door.

But more often than not Bond was away. This was just as familiar: a favorite mug warm with tea. He woke by himself and wondered if Bond had found his note yet. The coffee brewer didn't have to run and he could shower as long as he liked. His trip to work was still ridiculous and time-consuming as he doubled back and changed cabs to lose whatever tails he might have. Days were still tiring but no one brought nourishment at the end of them. It was hard not to care.

Then Bond would return, often drunk. Q would listen as he talked or launch into a meandering monologue of nothing, depending on what James needed that week. He sewed up a few cuts and once sent him straight back to MI6 for medical attention. Then they would crawl into their shared queen and Q would tuck James against him until they could both sleep.

Things were organized and Q was mostly happy. He tucked his feelings away and was content with what he had, for a time.

But time marches on and wants hardly ever stay buried for long.


	9. Like a Tedious Argument

**Hi lovely readers. I wanted this to be up more quickly than it was but that didn't happen obviously. There is a possible trigger warning in this chapter for a very short reference to sex trafficking. Enjoy!**

* * *

Repressed tensions came to a head at the end of April.

Bond returned so drunk he was stumbling. That didn't stop him from climbing in through the living room window though. The commotion woke a drowsing Q and pulled him from his half-empty bed. He let out an aborted gasp at the sight of the figure now sprawled on his rug. 007 had been missing for a week and four, Q checked his watch, five days.

Shortly after the completion of his latest mission all communication had gone dead. Every map, every grid lost the black dot that meant Bond was alive and moving. Eventually the earpiece Q resolutely kept hope in lost the dull buzzing and stopping working. His agent had disappeared and there was nothing the Quartermaster could do about it but wait and hope James decided to come back this time.

(This had happened before. It wasn't his place to worry so much he was unable to sleep. Life had gone on during Bond's last stint as a dead man and it would go on this time. Worry wouldn't help and certainly wouldn't bring James back to him and sooner than the old dog chose. He needed to sleep. MI6 and 004 needed all of his faculties for the morning. If only he could sleep. If only he didn't care so damn much.)

And now here was the source of so many sleepless nights and exhaustive days, pitiful in his inebriation. Q hadn't seen James quite this drunk before. A whiff of his breath as he pulled the spy up by his armpits revealed a hint of orange amidst the alcohol. He had returned to Vespers then, and it was going to be a rough night.

They only made it as far as the couch before the technician was forced to stop. Bond _was_ taller than him by a bit and had quite a lot more muscle to weight him. As soon as Bond was settled he was smacked smartly across the jaw by a fuming Q. before he could regain his sluggish wits he had a lap full of the angry technician.

James was a smart man and this was not exactly his first rodeo. He chose to hold his tongue and simply held his boffin while Q cried relieved little murmurs into his neck.

It didn't take long for Q to collect himself again. Instead of the expletives and forced promises James expected all he got was a quiet, "Why didn't you come home to me?"

A sigh served as the intro to his tale. "It was sex trafficking. They had so many people, a lot of them kids. Girls and boys too young not to have mums. One of them looked just like you, hair uncut and skinny as a corpse and I just couldn't deal with that thought." He petted the black curls without meeting the wide eyes. "I got reckless. I was just trying to get the damn job done. But I…I don't know. One of them got a little girl and put a gun to her head. She had pigtails and, God, she had to be six or seven. I could count her ribs through the dress they had on her. And they shot her right in front of me. He didn't have to. I gave him my gun. And she was staring at me…and God, I could see you like that boy…and…"

Q shushed him and met the sad blue eyes. He must have found in them what he was searching for because he proclaimed in a strong voice, "Kiss me."

James shook his head slowly without breaking eye contact. His thumb traced the tears that hadn't yet dried on Q's pale cheeks. "Not like this. You're not even finished crying over what I've done. I'm not going to kiss you, Q, not like this. You deserve to be more than a distraction because I've fucked up again."

The Quartermaster's mouth tightened. Of course this would be more difficult than he had imagined. "James, look at me," he commanded. "I'm here. I'm alive, I'm well, and there's no reason for you to run away, ok? We're done with distractions. I've been much more than a distraction these months and you're done running away from whatever's starting. You're going to kiss me because I'm yours and you need to know that. So can you just do that for m-"

He was cut off by James's bruising kiss. It wasn't tender or reassuring. That would come later, when they could both think more clearly. This was a painful reminder, pain to tell them both that there would always be someone to sooth the hurt. James ran his hands down Q's chest as he captured the younger man's tongue with his own. He was so glad that he couldn't feel the ribs beneath muscle and fat, and that the hair he ran his fingers through was clean and silky, not lank and filthy from lack of care.

His boffin gasped for air beneath his ministrations. Yet somehow his voice was still clear and posh as he proclaimed, "So are you done-" he paused as James bit as his sharp collarbone and scattered his thought, "-dancing around – ah – this?" The agent grumbled his assent from where he was busy ravishing Q's neck. "Then come on you drunk old bastard. Bed's this way." And with that his lap was empty and his Quartermaster had danced nimbly out of his hands.

There was nothing else to do put to follow where he led.

* * *

James smiled at the sight that greeted him in the morning. His boffin lay curled on his side, one hand wrapped firmly around James's bicep as if he was afraid the spy would disappear in the night. Ebony tousled curls were sprawled pell-mell on the pillow. He noted that they really needed to be cut soon. Q's slow, even breath was comforting. This was the only time James saw him truly relaxed; even just resting together on the couch in the evening Bond could tell Q's brilliant mind never stopped.

It was with reluctance that he removed Q's hand and rolled weightlessly off the mattress some time later. Strings of one-night stands had given his silent feet, raging hangover notwithstanding. As much as he wanted to laze the entire morning away, free from the creaks in his bones, his ache in his head demanded attention. There was tea and coffee to fix, and MI6 would eventually need to be informed of his return…but caffeine and painkillers first.

While the coffee percolated and the kettle rumbled cheerily on the stove he decided that mornings had become the most enjoyable parts of his days. Nine times out of ten Q was up before he and James would surface pleasantly to the smell of coffee and a slim hand on his chest. The warm colors of Q's decorating taste gave the living room the feel of a cave after a long winter. Not to mention, the Quartermaster himself had that edibly rumpled look to him when he first awoke.

Shaking his head like a large hound to rid himself of such thoughts he added sugar to the familiar mug of Earl Grey and poured his own black coffee. Returning to the bedroom he found Q sitting up and rubbing sleep out of his eyes. The technician blinked owlishly at the tea under his nose and then up at the agent holding it. He truly was endearing without glasses. His very own rent boy, he had teased once after too many martinis.

They were both quietly sipping the second cup of their respective addictions a little later. James sat propped against the headboard with the back of his Quartermaster's head lazily reclining on his better shoulder. The dreaded iPad had made its way into the bed again. Q checked email and world news in his usual unhurried and assured manner, preventing no less than three major Q branch crises as Bond looked on in amusement.

It was all very domestic.

With a glint in his eye, James moved away to retrieve his suit jacket from where it had been dropped the previous evening. From one of the inner pockets he pulled an obscenely large bag of Hershey's kisses; they had been made an oddly appropriate by Q's boldness the night before. He dropped them unceremoniously into the curious Quartermaster's lap and turned to the closet. His ears pricked for a reaction while he pretended to contemplate the day's wear.

When he turned back with a casual button down and dark jeans in hand he was greeted with a quite a sight.

Q had wasted no time at getting at the deliciously sugary drops. The little chocolates had all been rescued from their packaging and were arranged in a neat square that covered a quarter of the comforter. The white tails all faced the same way, little army men all in lines. The technician had set aside the tablet and was on his stomach with a mouthful of sweetness. James raised an eyebrow as clever fingers smoothed the foil wrapping and folded it into a perfectly flat triangle before tossing it onto a pile of similar triangles.

"Bit neurotic this morning, aren't we?" James settled his weight next to Q's on the bed, careful not to jostle the perfect formation of candy.

"Bit demonstrative this morning, aren't we?" Q shot back with his usual cheek. He rolled easily onto his back to examine his agent's face more easily. Not that he was complaining about the gesture, but it _was_ out of character for Bond to simply give whatever it was directly to him, instead of finding the most difficult and backwards way open to him. It was as if the man liked to pretend he didn't have feelings…and Q stopped that thought before it started. A road for another day perhaps.

James shrugged and avoided his eyes. He ran his hand over the sliver of skin that showed above the smaller man's sleep pants. Moving up over Q' ribs he muttered quietly, "You look like him, the boy I saw. I would just…I would just feel better if you had 10 more pounds on you, ok?"

The smile slid off Q's face like water. So that's what this was all about. It was no small wonder that Bond hadn't stayed away much longer. Less than two weeks was nothing but a breather. To be sure, Q wasn't sure he could have faced James at all after such a thing. God, he must see nothing but the emaciated figure from the mission.

Before he had made to conscious decision to do so Q was up and in James's lap, arms round the other man's muscled neck, clinging tight. The spy chuckled, surprised but not unhappy about the assault. "It seems I went to bed with the hurricane and woke up with the breeze. I thought you were angry with me last night?"

"Just come home next time," Q muttered from his burrow in James's collarbone.

He felt the agent laugh silently again but he also squeezed the boffin tight in a one-armed embrace.

* * *

Sometime around mid-afternoon they both found their way out of bed. James went first, tickling Q's feet until they both fell off the edge in a tangle of cords and limbs. Bond may or may not have stolen quick kisses as the technician scrambled up and away.

Running clever fingers through his mop of hair, Q studied James where he was still spread comfortably on the carpet. A long suffering sigh was Q's only response to the agent's unapologetic smirk.

"I actually do have a job they expect me to show up to, though I'm sure you wouldn't know much about that. The interns are in quite a state and it's only been-" he checked the clock on the nightstand, "-6 hours on their own. I won't drag you with me this afternoon but you really must report by the end of the week. You know that I've never been good at lying to M's face for very long."

James nodded and contemplated his luck in ending up with his boffin for a Quartermaster. He was quiet as Q went about finding his glasses and trying to sort out his hair. Probably he would sleep the rest of the afternoon. Luxuries like this were few and far between and he missed the feel of his own sheets. For a minute he contemplated getting drunk on London's best whiskey but quickly threw out the thought. Over a week of that had been ore than enough.

Q pulled him out of his thoughts on his way out the door as he slid a bowl of cereal into his hands and a quick peck onto his lips. And that was that. James was alone in the apartment, but for once didn't feel lonely.

* * *

**Please please please please please do not hate me. I'm going to go ahead...and call this finished. Damn that was painful. I love this work and it was so enjoyable to write but the thing is, I seem to have lost that enjoyment. I haven't looked forward to writing Chapter 10 at all and when I tried to write it I was so disappointed. I went back and read 1 through 9 and couldn't bear to give you guys something that wasn't even as half as good as previous chapters. So I'm not going to.**

**Of course a million thousand thank yous go out to every single person that has taken the time to read this. It was my first multi-chapter and I can't begin to describe the joy that all of the wonderful reviews have brought me. You all have given me so much confidence in my abilities as a writer and I'm happy to say that I plan to write much more on this sight and on my fanfiction. So a giant hug to all of you that have been with me since November, and the same to those just seeing this today!**

**If you haven't completely given up on me as an author yet, go check out my Sherlock fic, Death's Obsession, that I hope will be even better than this one, in its own way.**

**Love and a hundred happy endings to all of you!**


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